


Twenty-three

by unknownlifeform



Series: Tolkien Gen Week [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Gen, Patterns, Tolkien Gen Week 2020, twin bonds are a thing fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownlifeform/pseuds/unknownlifeform
Summary: Amrod came into the world first, Amras followed him. There was a pattern to it.
Relationships: Amras & Amrod (Tolkien), Amras & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Amrod & Feanor | Curufinwe
Series: Tolkien Gen Week [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818310
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Twenty-three

**Author's Note:**

> Get the longest fic for last! Anyways Amrod in this is the older brother and he doesn't die in Losgar. I can't believe I actually wrote for all seven days, like I'm some kind of person who can do things
> 
> Day Seven: Free

Fëanáro paced up and down the hallway. The only other people waiting with him were Maitimo and Makalaurë, sitting next to each other. The rest of his sons had said watching Fëanáro was making them too nervous and had gone to another room, asking to be called once it was over.

Fëanáro could not blame them. He knew how he became every time his wife entered labor. Nerdanel had firmly forbidden him from being with her in the room ever since Maitimo’s birth, claiming he didn’t need him around being more high strung than even she was.

Maitimo and Makalaurë only stayed with him in virtue of being the calmest of their brothers. Or perhaps because they had already experienced this wait many times, being the two eldest. Sitting, watching Fëanáro pace, hearing Nerdanel curse from the other room. They had to be used to it by now.

One would think Fëanáro should have also been more used to this, after having become a father five times already. However, he found that no matter how many times he waited for the sound of a crying newborn he never got any less scared. Not nervous, no, he was scared.

Nerdanel was strong, and the midwife skilled, and the pregnancy had been healthy and without complications. He knew all this, but he feared for his wife. He could never stop himself from thinking about his own mother, parting from the world upon his birth. There was no silencing the voice that told him perhaps one of his children could inherit his same spirit, the one that had drained Míriel’s strength.

And this time, that chance was double. Carrying two children at the same time had been harder for her than all the previous pregnancies. Fëanáro had felt through their marriage bond how her fëa had struggled to sustain the twins. He had tried to help her, sending her all his strength, but as he wasn’t the one pregnant there had only been so much he could do.

His thoughts were interrupted by Nerdanel shouting louder than before. Mere seconds after, the first twin informed them their new lungs worked perfectly.

Fëanáro’s heart skipped a beat. His child, his sixth child. He wanted to run inside so badly he almost shook, but he could not. There was still another one on the way.

Makalaurë stood up. “I’ll go call the others.”

“Just a little more,” Maitimo said, smiling at his father. He would almost appear calm, if not for how fast his leg was bouncing.

Fëanáro smiled back, although his face was numb with nerves. In his mind, he had begun counting the seconds since he had heard the first cry. Twins were most often born only a few minutes from one another. A short wait, but one that was turning into an eternity.

By the time the second voice joined the elder sibling, all of Fëanáro’s sons had gathered with him out of the door, and Fëanáro was sure they all had to be hearing the noise his heart was making as it raced.

“Is it over?” Curufinwë asked.

“Yes,” Fëanáro replied, his mouth dry. Now all they had to wait was the midwife coming to call them in.

“How does it feel to be an older brother, Curvo?” Fëanáro could picture the exact grin on his third son’s face, the way Tyelkormo’s arm must be thrown over Curufinwë’s shoulders. He could imagine it so well he did not even need to turn around to see it.

Not that he could. His eyes were trying to burn holes into the door, and his focus was all to his marriage bond. He felt Nerdanel on the other side of it, her fëa shaken and worn the way childbirth always left it. She was so incredibly tired, but she was fine.

Finally, the midwife opened the door. She looked at Fëanáro, and bowed. “My lord, your wife and sons are all healthy. Lady Nerdanel will need to rest, but she should recuperate fast.”

“Sons?” Fëanáro repeated.

“Yes. Two boys. Would you like to see them?”

Fëanáro nodded, already stepping around the midwife.

Nerdanel laid in bed, sweat having stuck her hair to her face. She smiled weakly upon seeing him. In her arms was a small bundle, wrapped in blankets, and the midwife’s assistant was handing her a second one.

“Nerdanel,” Fëanáro breathed, going to sit on bed next to her. He completely tuned out the midwife still cleaning, his eyes and ears all for his family.

“Have you made holes in the floor with your pacing this time?” she asked, her voice hoarse from all the screaming.

Fëanáro smiled. “The tiles are sturdier than that.”

“Mm. I supposed if they resisted Carnistir’s birth they must be.”

Ah, Carnistir. Longest birth of all their sons, by a long shot. It had taken the best part of the day, and Fëanáro had been on the verge of joining Nerdanel’s screaming.

He lowered his gaze from his wife’s face, and to the two babies she held. They had already started suckling at her breasts, and looked as healthy and strong as they possibly could.

“They have your hair,” he whispered, noticing the thin copper strands on their small heads. It moved him to see it. His sons, with Nerdanel’s colors.

“The first and the last, all in red,” Nerdanel said. “Appropriate.”

“You have truly outdone yourself, my wife,” Fëanáro said, brushing away her hair to leave a kiss on her brow.

Twins. Even seeing them in her arms, Fëanáro struggled to believe it.

“Don’t let the others hear you say that. They might get jealous.”

“Shall I call them in?”

“Might as well. They’re all hovering there and climbing over each other to see.”

Fëanáro turned, seeing his sons were indeed all standing in the doorway, craning their necks to take a look. “You may come here, you know.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

“Which one is older?” Tyelkormo asked.

“This one,” Nerdanel said, lightly bouncing the baby on her right. He had stopped feeding, and now looked ready to take his first nap.

“They are so small,” Curufinwë whispered. He didn’t seem to know how to deal with younger brothers.

“Babies tend to be like that, yes,” Carnistir replied. For all that he was trying to be aloof and cynical as he usually was, his eyes were wide with awe.

“You will all spoil them rotten, won’t you,” Nerdanel said.

“Yes,” her five older sons replied, all in chorus.

She smiled. “Well, you can start now. This one is done eating, and I need to sleep for a day straight.”

Fëanáro went to take the older twin. His hands almost shook. He was small, but not the smallest baby Fëanáro had held. That honor went to Makalaurë.

He stood up, tucking the child into the crook of his arm. He had to think of a name, and already had a few ideas about it.

As he took a few steps back, the child woke up, and started crying. The other twin, who had been still focused on feeding, joined him.

“What’s the problem?” Maitimo asked, glancing between the two babies.

Fëanáro also wasn’t sure why both children had started crying at once. Could it be that he was a stranger still to the baby, and that had scared him? Still, the child had not objected to being picked up, and the other twin had not responded to the other’s cry, but started screaming at the exact same second.

Fëanáro sat back down on bed, and the babies almost immediately calmed.

Fëanáro looked at his sons, confused.

“I don’t think I understand,” Tyelkormo said.

“Maybe they don’t like being apart,” Makalaurë suggested.

“Their eyes are closed, how would they know?” Carnistir asked.

“No, Makalaurë’s suggestion has sense,” Fëanáro said. “Twins have a fëa bond. They could have been startled by being separated.”

He had heard of it, but had never directly observed it. However, many parents of twins had spoken of a fëa connection between the two children, and twins themselves confirmed it. A bond that was forged before even they were born.

Nerdanel huffed. “They’ve been in this world for half an hour, and they’re already throwing tantrums. The two of you are going to be fun, won’t you?”

“This one has been in this world half an hour,” Fëanáro said, looking at the baby he was holding. “That one has only been here ten minutes.”

“And how much longer, exactly, has that one been here?”

“Twenty-three minutes,” Fëanáro said, having counted every single second.

***

Amras’s sword spun, and neatly decapitated one of his enemies. He didn’t stop to see the head roll to the ground, already turning around to fight off a Sinda rushing at him. Or at least he supposed that was a Sinda, what with the silver hair, but it could also very well be one of the many mixed blood children born in Beleriand.

Not that it mattered. He would not spare neither Sindar nor Noldor, not while they held the Silmaril. His sword and armor were both stained in blood by now, but Amras was not bothered by it. A hunter did not fear blood, and it had not taken him long to learn to see Elvish blood as not too different from that of a deer.

The mud making his feet slip, that was more of a concern.

He grunted, pushing away his last enemy. The sword was not Amras’s favorite weapon, but there was far too much chaos around to use a bow properly. He was tiring fast, fighting this way.

In the corner of his eye he saw a glimpse of red. Amrod fought not far from him, and he must have lost his helm, because his hair was spinning freely around him. No doubt Maedhros would scold him about that later.

Hopefully, not too much later. The people of Sirion were putting on a better resistance than Amras had expected. He had thought they would come across scared farmers and fishermen, weak and unprepared. Easy prey. These people however were determined. Most of them they were not skilled warriors, but they made up for that in numbers and desperation.

Yet another reason for Maedhros to tell them ‘told you so’ later. He had told his brothers his refugees would fight, and fighting they were.

In Amras’s mind, it was partially Maedhros’s own fault the resistance was so strong. He had been stalling, pushing away a fight that would have eventually come, ignoring the Ambarussa urging him to attack. Only when Maglor had started pushing him too had Maedhros capitulated.

Had they attacked immediately after realizing Elwing was there, it would have been easy to get rid of any opposition. But no, Maedhros had stalled, stuck by some misplaced sense of honor – what honor did the Sindar have, to steal and claim their father’s work as their own? The death of Dior’s twins had been unfortunate, but Maedhros should not have felt such guilt about it, not when his own brothers had perished too. Those children wouldn’t be the first nor the last to die in this war.

Now the Sindar had gathered back some of their strength, and they had long since been joined by what was left of Turgon’s people, and Amras had to work twice as hard against enemies armed with Gondolin made swords.

He tried to channel his frustration into his swings. He’d have time to argue with Maedhros later, now he had a battle to focus on.

He raised his shield high, parring a mace coming for him. The force of the impact ran through his arm and shoulder. Amras grit his teeth. He would be aching all over for a week at least.

He managed to bend and bury his blade in his enemy’s side, protected only by rough leather armor. He almost fell, however, tripping on something. Casting a glance behind, he saw his foot had caught on the body of one his soldiers, Feanorian star gleaming on her blood covered armor.

Amras had to be more aware. If he fell to the ground, he might never get up again. No matter how tired he was, he had to keep going. He was the commander, and he had to fight harder and longer than any of his soldiers, or so Maedhros always said.

Not for much longer. The enemies were starting to come slower, their blows weaker. Amras’s chest may be running out of breath, but the people of Sirion were also losing the strength of their arms.

With a shout, Amras launched himself to another enemy. His sword cut the air, but did not reach the target. The enemy – a Noldo, this one was definitely a Noldo – took a step back, parring, and quickly counterattacking. They exchanged blows. Amras was forced to get on the defensive. Cursed Gondolin soldiers! Too well had Turgon trained them, and then never sent them to help when it was needed!

He was not fast enough to raise his shield, and the enemy’s sword managed to pass through his guard. At least, he managed to move enough for it to only slam against his shoulder. His armor did not break, no, Curufin had forged it for him, and no sword could ruin it. But the blow still came hard, and Amras stumbled.

Lucky for him, his enemy seemed to gloat too soon. She clearly thought she must be winning, and lowered her guard. He struck at her with the speed of a beast. Her throat was exposed and defenseless, and his blade easily cut through skin and muscle. She crumbled to the ground, gurgling her last breaths.

Amras rolled his arm. He was fired up enough to not feel pain in all of its intensity, but he would likely bruise. No time now to think about it. There was-

The worst feeling Amras had ever experienced washed over him. He was cold, cold, freezing, a knife of ice buried in his chest and _twisting_. His chest as if emptied, and the wound rubbed with salt. The taste of bile rose in the back of his throat. Never had he felt anything like this, but Amras knew what it meant the second it came.

His bond to Amrod had been a constant since his birth. Amras and Amrod had been tied to each other ever since they were babes, their fëa connection sitting right below their ribcage.

Now it  _hurt_ . It twisted and ripped, cut not by a sharp sword but by the edges of a blunted and jagged knife.

Amras turned. His mouth hung open, trying to suck in a breath. Despite the pain, he tried to deny it. It could not be. Amrod was a warrior. He was strong.

A red haired figure laid on the ground, crumbled down on itself.

The scream that tore itself from Amras’s throat was not the sound of an Elf or a Man, and perhaps not even of an Orc.

Not Amrod! His other brothers- They had hurt, horribly, deeply, those losses, but they were not Amrod. Tied since birth, the Ambarussa, Amras’s name by law but shared by them in life. Amras had not been without his twin, never! Not a moment of his life had he existed without Amrod also there in the world!

H is heart bled. The sounds an d sights of battle tuned out around him. He wanted his brother, he needed to reach him! Blindly he swung his sword, trying to clear out space, to get to Amrod, he had to- The fëa connection between them had snapped like taut rope, but maybe- He didn’t know what kind of wound-

A broken fëa bond was enough to drive anyone to madness, for a few minutes. One would come back to it, eventually, but the pain was too strong to bear at first. It tore the mind to shreds.

Amras reached neither his brother nor the clarity that would have come after the initial shock. He barely even noticed the pain of being cut down. His legs failed him. He could not walk. His arms were too exhausted for him to crawl.

Tears blurred his vision. He was scared. He had never been without Amrod. Amrod had come into the world, and Amras had followed him. He had never been  _alone_ . He didn’t even know what it meant, for he had never experienced it.

For an eternity lasting twenty-three seconds, Ambarussa was a singular person, and he could not stand it. His soul abandoned Beleriand and tumbled into Mandos, and that was almost a relief.

* **

Amrod’s new lungs took in the first breath of his second life. His eyes blinked, looking up at a grey stone ceiling above him.

He laid on a cold surface. It was not comfortable, but there was a certain novelty in being uncomfortable after some thousand of years of not having a body. He sat up, finding that he was on a bed of stone, like many others in the bast room. They were all empty, except for his own. He had been given privacy for his rebirth, it seemed.

Amrod looked down at himself. He was wearing a simple white tunic, that covered a body both familiar and entirely new. There were none of the scars he had once been used to seeing, be it burns he had received in Losgar or scraped knees he had clumsily gotten in his childhood. It was strange, to see his skin so pristine. And pale, too. He once used to spend so much time outside that he always had a tan.

Being once again made of flesh and bones was weird. He didn’t know how long he had been dead, exactly, but he had a vague idea of it, and it was much longer than he had been alive in the first place.

There was a door on the other side of the room. Amrod knew he had to cross it. Námo had told him. He had told Amrod many things, really.

Amrod stood up. His first steps were hesitant, but memory quickly returned to his fëa on how to control a hröa. Raise one foot, then the other. It was easy.

He squinted when he came out in the open. Mandos was wrapped in eternal, gentle twilight, nothing like the brightness of the sun. There was blue above his head, and grass under his feet, and the scents of the world all around him. For a moment, Amrod thought he might cry. He used to think he might never be allowed to see what was outside the Halls once.

He was so overwhelmed he nearly missed the people waiting for him.

“ _Ambarto!_ ”

He turned, eyes wide, and his new knees almost failed him. “Mother?”

Nerdanel ran to him, cupping her son’s face in her hands. “My son, you’re back. You’re back with me.”

“I am,” he whispered, his own hands wrapping around his mother’s wrists. She was real, warm. Her face was thinner than how Amrod remembered, and her hair was styled in a different way, but it was her. His mother. “Mother, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Hush,” Nerdanel said, with unshed tears in her eyes. “Later. Later you can tell me that, but now I want to look at you.”

Amrod nodded, trying to swallow the tightness in his throat. After a few seconds, Nerdanel jumped forwards, wrapping her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, perhaps with more force than was necessary, but he could not help it. He had led armies in the past, but now he was small, just a child in her arms.

He couldn’t hold back the tears that flowed down his face and into her hair, those red hair she had given him.

“Pityo...”

Amrod looked up, and saw his brothers, those that had already been allowed to leave Mandos. Celegorm was the one who had spoken, and Caranthir and Curufin stood right behind him. He reached out to them with one hand, and they rushed forward, wrapping both him and Nerdanel in a hug.

He realized he wasn’t sure what names to use for them, now. Sindarin or Quenya.

He had time to learn.

“We missed you, Pityo,” Curufin said.

“Me too.”

He had seen their corpses, had helped bury them. They had met in Mandos, he remembered that, but it was a different thing to see them alive and breathing. Amrod cried, held in his family’s arms.

“Pityo,” Caranthir said, after a while. “Pityo, forgive me the question, but why isn’t Telvo with you?”

A sob shook Amrod. Amras, Amras. “Námo said… he said he’s coming, soon. But… we couldn’t be reborn at the same time. That’s what he told us.”

“But why?”

Amrod shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain it to them.

The easy answer would be that Amras had done something to deserve being held back longer. Even a single murder more than the ones Amrod had been guilty of would be worth having to wait longer for a new chance at life.

However, that wasn’t it. His family didn’t know – his mother would have no idea, but his brothers had not truly seen it either – how they had been in the end. The two of them had ruled away from their brothers, they rarely visited or received visits. They had always been close, they were twins and had similar interests, but in Beleriand it had become… unhealthy.

Amrod hadn’t seen it then, but now he recognized it. They were always together, they did everything together, they hunted and fought together. They spoke at the same time, they thought the same thoughts.

T here were limits to what could be considered a normal twin bond, and they had passed  them . They had been codependent, dangerously so. It was only because their bodies were separate that they still could have been considered two different people.

Even in the Halls they had always stuck together. What Námo wanted, the final step, was for them to be alone. They  had to. They could not keep being Ambarussa they way they used to. Amrod and Amras, of Pityo and Telvo, if they preferred, but  two  people , not one.

It still brought pain to Amrod’s heart to see the room that had been set aside for them and see two beds, and know one would stay empty. Unsettling could not describe what it was to not have his twin with him. Did not even come close.

Still, he tried. It was hard to dwell on his loneliness when Amrod’s family was around him. He was too busy making a space for himself in a Valinor that still resented him to waste time brooding.

Not that he could blame the hatred he received, as unpleasant as it was. He was a murderer and a criminal. All his brothers were working to redeem themselves in whatever way they could, and Amrod was not one to back down.

He ended up finding a job as a stable boy. In his past life, he would have been offended at the mere suggestion. Now, he had to start somewhere. He did not have a rank and a powerful father to rely upon. He liked horses well enough, and if he had to clean a few dozens of them to get back into Valinor’s good graces, he would.

It was after months, when he was starting to getting used to people calling him Ambarto again, that the letter came from Mandos.

“Ten days! In ten days Telvo will be back!” Curufin shouted, having found the letter before the others did.

It was a few days of travel, from their house to Mandos, and they made it quickly.

When Amras woke up, Amrod knew. He felt it. His brother’s fëa was once again getting tied to his. He didn’t know how Námo had done it, only that the bond was once again there under his lungs, and he could finally breathe properly again.

When Amras took his first steps outside the Halls, Amrod all but tackled him.

“Get off!” Amras screamed, pushing him back, but he was laughing.

If there was some sort of irony in Amras following Amrod back into the world twenty-three weeks later, no one caught it.


End file.
